change

The more I live this life the more I am sure that in order to get anything I have to be willing to let some things go. Sometimes what I need to let go feels very precious – until I release it and realize that what shows up afterward is even better.

I often tell a parable to illuminate this point:

Let’s say you’re walking down the road one day, completely minding your own business, carrying a gold coin held tightly in each fist because they’re the only gold coins you’ve ever had and you want to keep them safe. And, as you’re walking down the road, minding your own business, you happen to meet the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow, sitting by his pot of gold.

He says, in his best Lucky Charms voice: “Good day to you! Dip your hands into this here cauldron of shining gold coins and you can keep whatever you can hold.”

Now is the moment of decision for you.

Do you hold tightly to the two gold coins you have – hey, they’re a sure thing! – and try to scoop with closed fists? How much gold do you think you can gather when your hands are closed?

Or, do you open your fists – maybe losing your two precious gold coins – so you can use your open hands to gather as much as you could manage?

I know myself and I know that I would, without hesitation, make my hands as big as they could be and attempt to scoop up twenty or thirty gold pieces – even if I ended up losing the two I came in with. This is probably why I’ve been able to keep my business running since 1997 – I have a high tolerance for risk and for not knowing how things will turn out.

[The truth is I generally assume things are going to turn out all right and you know what? They almost always do.]

However, if you have a high need for certainty, control, comfort – well, you might just tip your hat to the leprechaun and keep walking down the road. Because, for you, the assurance of your two gold coins matters more than the risk of losing them.

And this is where people get stuck. The proverbial bird in the hand. The demon you know. The at-least-I-know-what-to-expect.

The comfortable.

For all of us, though, there are times when the comfortable becomes uncomfortable. When the demon you know becomes a demon who’s destroying you. When the bird in your hand flies away. When the rules change abruptly or no longer apply.

And those are the moments when you have to – must – let go.

It’s so hard. It can change your definition of yourself. It can hurt.

But to become unstuck – to be happy and fulfilled – you must let go of those two gold coins you’ve been clutching in your tight little fists for so long, and begin to claim the treasure that’s being offered you.

I wrote this on the ten year anniversary of 9/11, and re-reading again this year, the fifteenth anniversary, seems appropriate to read it again, this year.

I was feeling rather smug that morning.

I stood on the tee box of the seventh hole, under the bluest sky I’d seen in some time, the crisp early fall air like a tonic in my lungs. And I was playing my brains out – 2 strokes over par after the first six holes of a nine hole golf tournament.

I was even nervously allowing myself to think, “I could win this thing!”

I stood on the tee box in the casual pose I’d seen pro golfers strike, arm on hip, hand on the end of the club, leg crossed over. I posed like a woman who was going to win, baby.But then I saw something. Coming over the ridge, a golf cart. I squinted. It was the young golf pro, and she was barreling directly for me. She screeched to a halt and breathlessly said, “Mrs. Woodward, you have to come in. Your husband called.” She must have read something on my face, because she quickly added, “Your kids are fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s just that both World Trade Towers in New York have collapsed, there’s a bomb at the Pentagon, there’s a bomb at the State Department and something up at the Capitol.” Panic started to well up inside me. “Your husband wants you to get the kids and go home.” I nodded, processing it all, and threw my bag on the back of her cart and we sped off. My playing partner stepped out of the porta-potty just in time to hear me say, “I concede. I have to go.”

And I didn’t think about golf again for a very long time.

It took well over an hour to drive the six miles home. I picked up the kids – confused, frightened – on the way. During those gridlocked minutes in the car, I felt like a sitting duck. The local all-news radio station was reporting on fighter planes scrambling, and commercial planes landing. They also reported that there was one more plane, on the way to The White House.

The White House, where I had worked, and where so many friends were working that day.

Crossing the Chain Bridge, I glanced to my left and saw a column of black smoke streaming over the tree tops. The Pentagon burning.

I could smell it.

It was surreal.

Our house is about a quarter of a mile from the Potomac River. Between the house and the river is the busy and noisy George Washington Parkway, which is traveled by 80,000 people every day. Usually, the hum of the cars whizzing past creates a gentle susurrus that can be as comforting as sitting by the ocean. And we also live under the flight path for Reagan National Airport, and the steady rumble of landing and taking off every six minutes is a part of the environment. It’s a noisy place.

But that morning, under the bluest sky, I stood in my front yard and heard… nothing. No traffic. No planes. Nothing. I held my arms out, as if I could embrace the world and share our pain, when I heard the first one. One deep tone. Then another. The National Cathedral had begun tolling its bells. Then the bells from other churches began to ring. Mournful, yes. But hope, too, in each tone. Hope. Hope. Hope.

I stood there, barefoot, broken-hearted, on one of the most beautiful days of the year. Worried. What could possibly come next?

I did an inventory: I had a husband I loved, I had great kids I could parent full-time. I had my family, my friends. We were blessed. We were safe. We were going to be okay.

That’s what it looked like under the bluest sky. But the reality of the next ten years proved to be quite different than I ever could have imagined.If a visitor from the future had told me, that morning out on my front lawn, that in the next ten years:

I would divorce the man whose ring I wore on September 11, 2001, after learning some hard truths.

He would move away, remarry and start a new family.

I would be a single parent.

I would give up being a full-time mom and go back to work.

I would be diagnosed with cancer.

I would struggle financially.

Family and dear friends would die unexpectedly, some painfully.

My children would face challenges which would stop us in our tracks.

If the future visitor told me all that on September 11, 2001, I would have said, “You have to be kidding. It can’t possibly go that way.”

But if that visitor was telling the truth, he’d also have had to tell me the fantastic parts of the coming years:

That I would be known as a writer, with blogs and books.

That I would work with people all over the world – from Asia to Europe, from Canada to Mexico, from Alaska to The Keys – and help them find more fulfilling work, and meaningful lives.

That I’d meet strangers who would grow dear to my heart.

That a certain 8-year old third grader would become a happy, thoughtful, kind, six foot tall college man with a thriving business he created from scratch.

That a little kindergartner would grow into a willowy high school athlete who studies Latin and history, and never forgets a friend.

That I would fund my own retirement account.

That I would own my resilience, know myself and grow comfortable in my own skin.

If the visitor from the future had told me under the bluest sky that I would grow to be more myself – more happy, centered and creative – than I’ve ever been, I would have said, “Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Because I hadn’t a clue on September 11, 2001. I thought I was happy. What could possibly change?

Only everything.

And always for the better, I’ve learned. No matter how it seems in the moment.

Looking forward the next 10 years, to September 11, 2021, what will happen? What change will I meet, and how will I handle it?

I have no idea. None. But I do know this: I am not afraid.

Because even all the pain of the last ten years has been exponentially outweighed by all the love. By all the connections. By all the growth. By all the learning.

On September 11, 2001, three thousand people lost their lives. They had no chance to experience the last ten years of living. But we did. We still do.

Don’t you think we owe it to them to embrace whatever it is that’s coming? And embrace it with love? With kindness? With creativity?

Yes, we do. And I will. I will live with my feet in the grass under skies both blue and gray, and remember the sound of bells tolling, hope, hope, hope.

Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. A therapist trying to help an autistic man.

It seems trivial and superficial for me to write about How To Be Yourself when the US is facing one of the most consequential elections in history. When the UK deals with Brexit. When Turkey has a coup.

I’ve been over here gawping for air like a fish washed up on the shore, people.

Then I remembered my four words for 2016: Real. Presence. Generous. Opportunities.

I’m not being very real or generous by staying silent. I don’t have a presence if I’m not here.

I’m not using the opportunities I have to say the things that might help you (and me) cope through these difficult days.

So, I’m going to try. Let me tell you a story.

About ten years ago – it was a Friday night in January – I was home with my sick son. We heard a loud bang and then smelled the acrid scent of burning electrical wiring. If you’ve ever smelled it, you never forget it.

I ran to every room in the house, trying to figure out what had happened. As I careened down the steps to the basement, I saw thick, white smoke hanging from the ceiling. Not good. Threw open the door to the room where the HVAC system and circuit breaker box is located, and smoke was two feet thick there. I grabbed the phone, dialed 911, took my son by the hand and quickly left the house.

My next-door-neighbor had invited me for wine earlier, which I had declined because my son was sick and I didn’t want him to feel puny and all alone. When I knocked on her door, she was delighted. “You can have wine!” I said, “No. Hear those sirens in the distance? They’re coming to my house.” I explained the situation, she took my son in hand and I went to meet the fire trucks.

Nine of them.

The feeling in the pit of your stomach when firefighters with axes prepare to enter your home is like nothing you can imagine. And seeing the hoses uncoiled, ready to soak your house is both encouraging and terrifying.

The red lights were turning, the fire chief in his white hat was talking with me, and my heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon.

After they had inspected the house, determined that the circuit breaker board had exploded (thankfully, it’s mounted on a cinder block wall or else those hoses and axes might have had to have been used), and turned off all power to the house, the most extraordinary thing happened.

My neighbors started coming.

First, the close in neighbors who I know well, asking if I needed anything. It was January, after all. Did we have a place to stay?

Then, the farther out neighbors. Elderly neighbors. Young neighbors. Could they pitch in? Did I need anything? Did the kids need anything?

Folks walked up the hill, and around the corner. Not looky-loos, but people who wanted to help. Who were ready to help.

It was so kind, and made me feel so connected and cared for. I wasn’t all by myself dealing with a catastrophe – I was part of a community who was looking out for one of its own.

And this is what we need to remember during these trying times.

When we feel like we’re all alone and there’s nothing we can do – there’s always something we can do.

Because when neighbors help neighbors, communities thrive. When communities thrive, nations thrive.

And when your neighborhood extends to those you don’t know, who don’t look like you, whose life experiences are different from yours, who think differently, who are in need…the planet thrives.

So, let’s all be a community, shall we? Let’s be kind to one another and find ways to connect and help.

There’s a lot coming at all of us these days, sugars, and the only way to get past it is to get through it. Together.

Q. Michele’s driveway is 45′ x 25′. It is covered with 25″ of snow. How many cubic feet of snow is that?

A. Uh. I have no idea – I always did better on the verbal part of the SAT.

By now you’ve no doubt heard about the Blizzard of 2016, dubbed Snowzilla by The Washington Post (although Make Winter Great Again was a crowd favorite). I have lived in the Washington, DC area for most of my life and I have never seen a storm like this. The snow came so hard and so fast – at the rate of two or three inches an hour at some points of the thirty-six hour storm.

The power flickered, the wind howled and as the snow began to pile up in three to four foot drifts in front of every door, I wondered how in the world I would ever be able to shovel myself out. At one point, I decided to give it a try. I grabbed my shovel and went to clear a path to the sidewalk – just in case I had to get out (to the neighbor’s house for a glass of wine, of course).

Looking at the forty-five feet I had to clear felt impossible. The snow was so deep that every lateral twelve inches required three passes: One cut to get the top layer – move into a pile – and another cut to get the middle part – move into a pile – and a final cut to get down to the pavement. My pile got larger and larger. I kept my head down and focused on step by step, twelve inches at a time, the top, middle and bottom of every foot. I didn’t think about how far I had to go – I just thought about where I was and what I was doing.

And I did it. I cleared a path.

I felt all accomplished and whatnot.

I went to sleep knowing that there would be a lot of shoveling work ahead of me the next day. When the dawn broke, the sun came out and the sky was a brilliant blue. The snow lay like a beautiful, white blanket spread thickly upon the Earth. And thickly upon my driveway.

I went out to see if I could find the path I’d shoveled to the sidewalk in the height of the storm. It was sort of there, filled in by new and drifting snow and I began shoveling again – top, middle, bottom. Top, middle, bottom. Step by step until I got to the sidewalk. Then top, middle, bottom, I cleared the sidewalk. Then, top, middle, bottom, I made a wee path to the street.

Snowplows had cleared a single lane down my street and kicked up a barrier that was icy and tall. Again, step by step, top, middle, bottom, I went through it.

Then I cleared the snow away from my house on the deck. Step by step. Top, middle, bottom.

I am sure you see where I’m going with this.

Maybe you got snow. Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you live some place where it’s currently summer. If so, I will be coming to visit you immediately.

The lesson is: If there’s something that needs doing in your life and it feels too big, too impossible, too much – so big, perhaps, that you can’t even get started…think “step by step”. Think “top, middle, bottom”.

Think less about how much there is to do and more about what you can get done.

Focus on that, and before you know it you’ll be finished.

And, when the next literal or figurative storm comes – because there will always be another storm – you’ll know exactly what to do.

If you ask what’s my baseline, fundamental belief about the world, I’d have a fairly simple answer.

You see, I believe that there are really only two ways to go through life.

You’re either someone who believes (let’s call them Camp A) that there’s never enough and you can’t trust anything, or (Camp B) you believe there’s plenty to go around and you trust most things.

Camp A’s motto is “I got mine. You go get yours.” Or maybe it’s “I got mine and now I’m going to prevent you from getting yours because there may not be much left and I may want more tomorrow.”

Camp B’s slogan is “I got mine. Want some?” Or maybe it’s “I see you don’t have any. How can I help?”

Since they don’t trust – anything – leaders and managers who come from Camp A tend to micromanage, bully and disparage. They push overwork, over-achievement, over-delivering because it means more for them! But there’s never really going to be enough because “enough” doesn’t exist in their mindset, does it?

Now, people who come from abundance and trust are quite different. As leaders and managers, they mentor, teach and lead by example. They know that trusting employees to work from home or take twelve weeks off after the birth of a baby is an investment in their people’s quality of life and creates high-performing, committed workers.

So, in shorthand:

Abundance means there’s always enough.

Lack means there’s never enough.

Trusting that things will work out for the best means that they often do.

Trusting that things will always go south means that they often do.

The camp you fall into on this defines the quality of your life and the richness of your experience.

H stands for your overall happiness. S represents your “Set Point”, C is the conditions of your life (do you have a long commute? A happy marriage? A leaky roof? A bum knee? A beautiful garden?) and V stands for the voluntary things you choose to do (anything you do that brings meaning or brings pain).

And, of course S is all about whether you come from abundance and trust or lack and fear.

The interesting thing is that simply changing one part of the formula makes a huge difference in your overall happiness. Want to guess which one?

That’s right, diligent readers – your set point makes up the biggest part of your overall happiness. So, while you can change the conditions of your life by moving closer to the office, fixing the roof or getting physical therapy for your knee, and you can certainly choose to do more meaningful things, but the real payoff comes from shifting your set point.

Whatever you can do to let go of fear and allow more trust will pay off.

Whatever you can do to remind yourself that there’s plenty of good stuff out there for you will pay off.

I’m not saying it’s easy. Seems like there are plenty of people who will invite you into Camp A, ask you to take a chair and settle in for a long, long sit. They’ll also tell you that people in Camp B are foolish, naive and stupid because the world is a hard place and you have to fight and scratch to get what you need in this life.

But I’ll tell you something – people in Camp B are happy. They really are, profoundly and innately. And they can be productive, successful and at the top of their game. Their lives are not struggles – in fact, their lives seem inordinately lucky, kind of effortless and even blessed.

It’s pretty sweet.

So, how about this? How about you start your membership in Camp B today? Start by noticing when things go your way. Keep track of times when there is more than enough. Remember that all trust begins with trusting yourself – so do what you can to stop the second-guessing, the self-doubt, the self-disparagement.

Step by step, move by move, opportunity by opportunity, you will build your trust that the world is actually full of wonderful things for you, and for others.

There’s plenty of room in our tent here in Camp B, and there’s space for you right here next to me.

Funny how everything’s coming together for me to be even more reflective this March.

In 1960, when I was born, the world was a much different place. Global population was about a third the size it is today, and it felt like there was plenty of open space here and out in the galaxy. We were a year away from a visit to space – the Soviet launch of Yuri Gagarin into Earth’s orbit followed closely by US astronaut Alan Shepard, in a demonstration of the competitiveness of the Cold War.

How surprised would the world have been in 1960 to learn that the Soviet Union would crumble and capitalism would come to Communist nations?

When I was born, the U.S. had segregation – Dr. King had yet to march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, and even though Brown vs. Board had been settled, few schools had been desegregated.

Could we even have fathomed the relative ordinariness of seeing people of color as CEOs, Presidents, politicians, doctors, lawyers and professors not only in the US, but around the world?

Women, in my childhood, had a slim choice of jobs if they wanted to work: nurse, teacher, secretary, waitress, domestic help or bookkeeper. Even the brightest women faced a thick, impenetrable glass ceiling.

Small Michele might not have believed what’s possible today. Had anyone said that she would grow up to work with executives around the world who want to get better at their jobs, and that she’d do it from home, most often wearing yoga pants and a fleece pullover, while making a very good living, Wee Michele probably would have asked:

“What’s yoga?”

But some things today are exactly the same as they were when I was born. And these are things I’m exceptionally glad for:

People still fall in love.

Folks still have best friends.

Most of us offer help when we see someone in trouble.

Children smile and the world is all right.

We cheer for the underdog and applaud our heroes.

We laugh at each other’s jokes.

Songs are sung.

Meals are shared.

Lips are kissed.

Yes, we humans still see possibilities.

We still make things happen.

We still believe.

And after all these years, and all that change, that’s the world I believe you and I really want.

There are so many people who will talk to you about Finding Your Passion.

These people, in my experience, tend to dot their i’s with eensy little hearts or smiley faces. In their worlds, Finding Your Passion appears to involve exotic trips, fabulous shoes, wine and botox. Oh, and buff, windswept, sultry people strolling on a beach. And inspiring motivational quotes.

Plenty of inspiring motivational quotes.

I, however, live in a different world and I’ll bet you live pretty close to me, too.

It’s a world where we work for a living and deal with plenty of competing pressures. It’s a world where things change, sometimes at the last possible minute, and what matters is less about the shoes you have on your feet and more about the resilience you have in your heart and mind.

How do you Find Your Passion in our demanding, fast-paced world?

It’s not a rhetorical question, believe me. In just two short weeks last September, I went from being a super-engaged, schedule-driven-by-my-children’s-interests mom to time-on-her hands, working from home middle-aged woman. I even have small dogs.

They are doing what they are supposed to be doing – what I raised them to be able to do – and I could not be happier.

Yet, after years and years of going wherever their sports events were, and spending time on their enthusiasms – hairstyles and the films of Quentin Tarantino, for instance – I have found myself with plenty of time to spend on what I want to do.

Which is, precisely… what?

The first couple of months that they were gone was still a hubbub of activity. I shipped things they forgot or realized they needed, and managed long phone calls processing their new environments. I traveled to visit each of them and devoted time and attention to the logistics around coming home for Thanksgiving, and then Christmas.

But now we’re in the long stretch where no one is coming home for some time. And I’ve even caught them referring to “home” as where they live now.

Which is heart-clenching the first time it happens, and then starts to make sense. Because, they are well and truly launched.

So, back to passion. Specifically, finding yours after a big change or just when you realize that your life is not as fulfilling as you’d like it to be.

The standard question in these moments is “When do you lose track of time?” and that’s a good one. I also add, “When do you feel most engaged and happy?”

Let’s say you figure out that you are most engaged and happy when you are traveling. OK – let’s go a little deeper, shall we?

What is it about travel that lights you up? Is it new experiences? New cuisine? Observations of differences in cultures? Is it the people you travel with? Is it because you always travel on vacation – away from work and chores?

Don’t say, “All of it!” because that’s too easy. And I am not letting you off the hook that easily.

Nor am I going to start dotting with teeny hearts.

Passion is not about what you do, but how you feel about what you’re doing.

If you figure out that you are driven to travel because you love to observe the differences in culture, then maybe you can also satisfy that passion by making sure to attend cultural festivals in your own town. You could regularly try different cuisines. You could host an exchange student. You could read books about different worlds. You could discover artists from around the world and learn about them.

Because, you see, your passion deserves to be in your life every single day, not just during one big trip a year.

When you live your passion, the world opens up for you. Possibilities become obvious. Connection is easy.

Life feels full and happy. Success is more and more effortless.

It’s pretty great.

As for me, after some deep reflection, I remembered my passions pretty clearly. They’re centered around creativity, mentorship, connecting and learning.

And while I miss the job I was really very good at and completely fulfilled by, I know that the things I am passionate about also fill me up.